


Prime

by Buttsuoka_Rin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Greg is a Worrywart, M/M, Mid-life Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttsuoka_Rin/pseuds/Buttsuoka_Rin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm old." Is all Greg says, watching those long, slender fingers as they tense on his knee. Why does Sherlock want him when he could have someone younger?</i>
</p><p>Sherlock finds Lestrade awake in the wee hours of the morning, upset about something but not wanting to talk about it. He coaxes it out of him and proceeds to point out why Lestrade is wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prime

"You all right?" Sherlock's voice is thick with sleep. He emerges from his room, scratching the back of his head, to find Lestrade half-sprawled on the couch and dressed in nought but a pair of pyjama bottoms. One of his arms is thrown over his eyes. It's a quarter to six in the morning and Lestrade should be in bed next to him.

"Fine." Lestrade's voice is clipped, tight, and Sherlock knows it's a lie straight away. He doesn't press it just yet.

"I'll put the kettle on." Sherlock spares Lestrade a weary glance as he makes his way over to the little kitchenette. He clicks down the kettle and clatters about with cups and spoons, until he emerges again and pads back over to Lestrade's side, kneeling down. 

Gently, he tugs on the DI's arm until it falls away from his face and is greeted with a pair of tired eyes. Usually it's the other way around; Sherlock sprawled on the couch and Lestrade wondering what's wrong. Most of the time it's to do with unsolved cases and a very frustrated consulting detective.

"You're up early." Sherlock says quietly. "Sick?" He knew he wasn't, but it wasn't a good idea to try and deduce Lestrade, not just yet.

Lestrade shakes his head, pushes himself up into a sitting position, and lets his head fall back against the back of the couch with a sigh. He runs a hand through his silver hair and closes his eyes. When he opens them next, Sherlock is looking up at him with a furrowed brow.

The kettle boils and clicks, breaking the tense silence.

"I'll just..." Sherlock stands and jerks his chin in the direction of the kitchenette. Lestrade nods and then watches him prepare two cups of steaming tea, two spoons of sugar for himself and none for him. He accepts the tea gratefully when Sherlock returns. 

Their fingertips brush against the porcelain surface of the cup minutely.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Lestrade can almost _hear_ the wince in Sherlock's voice as he settles down next to him. Most of the time Sherlock hates talking about feelings and/or discussing relationship problems. But it's obvious that he's concerned, Lestrade can tell, because he's actually taking the time to ask with patience. It makes something tug at his heart.

"I..." Lestrade pauses, chewing distractedly on his bottom lip. He releases it and shakes his head. "Nothing. Doesn't matter."

He blows on his tea and ignores the scalding liquid hitting the back of his throat. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"You're up at a quarter to - no, five to six now - in the morning, probably have been awake for a while beforehand. Am I right?" Lestrade nods and Sherlock continues. "You're barely speaking. Not to mention the fact that you're such a late sleeper when you're off work. Something is wrong. I'd... I'd like you to tell me. So I can help." 

The last part is said quickly, muffled somewhat by Sherlock's mug, and Lestrade knows Sherlock's concerned. Putting the tea on the ground by his feet, he lets his eyes roam over Sherlock and takes in everything; his unruly and unbrushed curls in rich brown, not a strand of grey about them. His eyes though often rimmed with dark circles, are alert and bright, constantly searching and observing. His body, still so lithe and toned. His skin, pale and unblemished par a feint scar on his lower lip and a few scattered moles - Greg liked to call them beauty spots - and not a wrinkle in sight.

Sherlock is not out of the prime of his life just yet.

And Lestrade... Lestrade is well past his.

With a sag of his shoulder he gives in. Somewhere throughout his thoughts Sherlock's hand had landed on his knee, squeezing it affectionately.

"I'm old." Is all Greg says, watching those long, slender fingers as they tense on his knee. Why does Sherlock want him when he could have someone younger? John, perhaps. Actually scrap that, anyone would have him if he wanted them to. Sherlock is beautiful in an ethereal sort of way. It was no wonder people gawked at him.

"Greg-"

"No, Sherlock, I am. I can feel it in my bones. I can't even look in the mirror without-"

"Greg!" Sherlock's voice is sharp and his hand tightens on Lestrade's knee, making him shut up. "Thank you. Listen to me, you're not _old."_

"I'm nearly fifty!"

"And? What does that matter?" Sherlock sets his own tea down and then turns, facing Lestrade fully. "Fifty isn't old. Sixty-five maybe, seventy even. But not fifty. And not you."

"Well I'm certainly not young now am I?" Greg snorts. "All I see when I look in the mirror is a grey haired man who's stomach is starting to give. I can't run like I used to."

"I like your hair." Sherlock sounds bashful but continues on. "And your stomach is not starting to 'give'. You lost weight, remember?"

Lestrade nods. He did lose weight in the years they weren't together; when John Watson came along and Lestrade thought they'd never get back together. He thought, like everyone else, that Sherlock and John were more than flatmates.

It made him give up all hope, thinking he'd get back with the wife or something to fill in the gaps.

Sherlock had picked up on it, old feelings were brought to the surface, and the entire Yard - including John - had been witness to the longest snog of the century. Donovan won fifty pounds that year.

"Listen hear, Gregory Lestrade." Sherlock's voice snaps him back to the present again. "I don't care if you're forty-nine, fifty-nine or sixty-nine. I love you, every inch of you, and I don't plan on leaving again."

Lestrade can hear the regret in his voice, the unsaid 'we don't need to go through that again' ringing clear in the silence that follows. He swallows, takes Sherlock's hands in his, and tugs him close so the younger man is in his lap.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade holds him close, tipping his head up so their noses bump. 

"Ssh, don't speak. Let me finish. Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?" Sherlock's fingers massage the base of his neck lazily. "I see the man who took me under his wing when I needed it most. I see sleepless nights because I was stupid, but you never left. I see the man I love because he didn't abandon me."

Lestrade knows this is probably difficult for Sherlock to say. They rarely, if ever, talk about their feelings. But once Sherlock starts there's not much that'll stop him. 

"You're not old. Not to me. And I'm not going to get tired of you if that's what you're thinking. So do something for me." Sherlock raises his head and smiles at him, receiving a little smile in return. "Come back to bed and stop moping?"

Lestrade laughs, the worry that'd been ebbing at his guts finally disappearing. He pulls Sherlock close so he can kiss him soundly on the mouth. To Sherlock's surprise - which Lestrade delights in - he is being scooped up bridal style in Lestrade's arms. He loops his arms around Lestrade's neck and laughs, shaking his head.

"See? OId men wouldn't be able to do that so quickly now, would they?"

Their laughter echos down the hall and into their bedroom, where it finally fades away...


End file.
